


Invite Me Over

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dating, Experienced John, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Grad Student Sherlock, Graduate School, Inexperienced Sherlock, Insecure Sherlock, Interrupted Sex, M/M, Med Student John, Neighbors, Oral Sex, Smut, Terrible flats, Unilock, Unresolved Sexual Tension, student life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4364219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lives in a crappy, run-down flat during his grad studies in chemistry when an attractive med student moves in next door. Unilock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invite Me Over

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to finish this thing for ages. I meant it to be for the Insecure Sherlock/Protective John theme for the Johnlock Fanfiction Network Calendar, but it's a bit late. Oops. I finished it anyway. Enjoy!

Sherlock hated his flat.

The windows didn’t close properly, his toilet kept breaking and needing to be repaired, and his kitchen had become infested by cockroaches for no discernable reason. It certainly wasn’t because there was food, because Sherlock had no food. Which was just as well, because his fridge had broken down and had yet to be replaced, because the damn thing was so old that they didn’t make spare parts for it anymore.

It wasn’t even just his flat, it was the entire building. The pipes kept breaking and raining down through people’s ceilings, the elevator never worked and always smelled of marijuana. Sometimes it took him to the eighth floor instead of the sixth or creaked ominously.

His neighbour was a nutjob. He kept banging on Sherlock’s door telling him to keep the noise down. Sherlock conceded that sometimes his experiments were rather loud, but this sort of thing happened even when Sherlock was asleep.

It was necessary, however, to put up with all these annoyances until he’d finished his MSc in Chemistry and could go on his way.

Mycroft, of course, had offered to pay for his residence at the dorms, but Sherlock refused. No need to owe Mycroft more than he did already.

Sherlock thought that his flat was the most dismal place in all of existence, until one day, he nearly ran into someone in the hallway.

It was a short, blond man carrying a huge stack of boxes, and Sherlock only managed to dance out of the way just in time. He’d been reading, and hadn’t noticed anyone approaching until it was almost too late.

“Sorry!” the man yelled, voice muffled from behind the stack.

Sherlock blinked and realized that the man was carrying the boxes down his hallway and looked back.

His neighbour’s door was wide open, and there were stacks of boxes piled up in the hallway and propping the door open.

Sherlock was going to be late to class, but he let curiosity take him back up the hall to the open door.

“Are you moving in?” Sherlock asked.

“Yep,” the man said, hands on his hips as he surveyed his new living quarters. “I’m John, by the way. Do you live next door?”

“Yes?” Sherlock said, blinking rapidly.

“Great, we’re neighbours, then,” John said, turning to grin at him. “I hope that you don’t find me too annoying.”

“You can’t be worse than the last one.”

“I could be a serial killer.”

Sherlock looked him over and decided that no, John really couldn’t be a serial killer at all - was in fact studying to be a doctor.

“Still couldn’t be worse than my last neighbour,” Sherlock said instead.

“Who’re you then?” John asked.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said.

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“And you, John Watson,” Sherlock said.

“I didn’t tell you my last name.”

“Written on every single box you own,” Sherlock said, smiling.

John laughed.

“I’ve got to go,” Sherlock said, shuffling his feet. “Got class.”

“You study at the university?” John asked.

“Chemistry Graduate,” Sherlock replied.

“Pre-med,” John said, although Sherlock already knew that.

“See you later then,” Sherlock said, feeling awkward.

“See you later,” John echoed.

Sherlock dashed off before things could become even more pedestrian. His skin all along his collar felt hot, and he had the terrible suspicion that he might be blushing. There was a full length mirror in the lobby, and it confirmed them. Dreadful. His cheekbones and the tips of his ears were all rather noticeably flushed.

He rushed off to class, knowing he was already five minutes late.

He was so ridiculous.

John wasn’t even that interesting. He was just another neighbour, albeit a slightly less annoying one than before.

He was so obvious. Came from a middle class family. Had two family members with drinking problems, one of whom was about his age - probably a sibling. Played rugby in his teenage years, possibly even his undergraduate years. Was studying to become a doctor.

Above average intelligence, although still not enough to come close to matching Sherlock’s brain. No one did, except Mycroft.

Just because John shouldn’t be that interesting didn’t stop Sherlock from rushing home right after class was over. Ordinarily, he’d be trying to break into the biology labs to see if he could get ahold of one of their dissection specimens.

The elevator button on the first floor was broken, so Sherlock decided to run up the stairs rather than bother going to the second floor. When he got to the sixth floor, he immediately realized that John wasn’t home. The door to the flat next door was closed, and the light was off.

Sherlock sighed and went to open his own door, feeling oddly disappointed. He didn’t even know what he would have done if John had been home. Interacting with other people was hardly his strong suit, and he was more likely to alienate John than anything.

He moped around the flat, glared at the dishes in the sink and the cockroaches scuttling across the cracked linoleum and eventually went out onto the balcony in a fit of pique, digging out a carton of cigarettes.

He’d just lit up when the balcony door next to him slid open, and John stepped out.

Sherlock actually dropped his cigarette in surprise, tried to catch it, and then dropped it again because he’d grabbed the lit end.

“You alright?” John asked in concern as Sherlock waved his hand about, hissing through clenched teeth.

“Yes,” Sherlock snarled.

John set down the teacup he’d brought out with him on the balcony rail and said, “Why don’t you pop over and I’ll take a look at it? Medical training, and all that.”

Sherlock blinked at him in surprise and nodded slowly.

“Come on over, I’ll get the front door - oops!”

John’s elbow knocked the teacup, and it joined Sherlock’s cigarette in the bushes below. John and Sherlock peered after it, and John giggled.

“I guess we’re even now,” Sherlock said.

“Not until you come over and let me look at your hand,” John said.

Sherlock made his way back through his flat and went to the front door, cradling his burnt hand against his stomach. It didn’t hurt as much as it had when it first happened, but there was no need to let John know that.

John let him in and took him to his kitchen, which had boxes stacked up in it.

“Here, hand under this lukewarm water, steady on,” John said, turning the tap on for him.

Sherlock did as he was bid and watched as John looked through the carefully labelled boxes for one that contained his medical kit. It didn’t take long, and John patted his injured hand dry with a towel, then started applying an antibiotic cream.

Sherlock stared avidly as John put some clean gauze over his injury and taped it down. John’s fingers were deft and sure and very, very warm as they turned his hand over.

“There,” John said, sounding pleased.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said awkwardly as he tried to figure out if John wanted him to just leave now that he’d been patched up.

“Do you want a cuppa?” John asked, smiling at Sherlock.

“Oh, um - yes! Please,” Sherlock said, stumbling over his own words.

John dug around the boxes until he located his kettle and his tea, then put the kettle on the empty counter. Sherlock fidgeted while they waited for the kettle to boil.

“You want to be an army doctor,” Sherlock blurted suddenly, to fill the silence.

John turned to him, and before he could stop himself, his mouth was off and running.

“You were in the Cadets,” Sherlock began. “I can see it on you, even though you’ve been out for a couple of years now. Stance, hairstyle, the way you carry yourself. You haven’t forgotten. You automatically fell in step with me. You’re a student, and you’re studying trauma surgery. Your hands are steady. And… you have an armed forces brochure tucked into one box, picked up from a job fair. You only picked up one brochure. The rest of your stuff is packed up neatly, and not one superfluous item was brought with you, which means that the brochure you have with you is something you’re serious about. You’re neat and orderly, perfect for an army lifestyle, but it’s a cultivated orderliness. I can tell, because of the way you made your tea. You left everything out all over the counter, realized you’d made a mess, and have automatically gone back and cleaned up.” 

Sherlock let this all out in one breath. Then realized that he’d gone and done what he always did: spewed out someone’s life story when they hadn’t asked him to.

Not that he was ever going to stop, but it sure made making friends difficult.

John stopped and stared, and just when Sherlock was certain he was about to be kicked out of the flat, he grinned.

“Brilliant!” he said. “You worked it out just by looking at me?”

“Y-yeah,” Sherlock said, blinking rapidly.

“Must have really got a good look,” John said, still smiling. “You’re perfectly correct.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks growing warm and ducked his head. “Yes, I generally am.”

Sherlock drank his tea, glancing over at John every so often. He couldn’t help it, John was endlessly fascinating. It wasn’t even a question of wanting to know more about him. It was that he _had_ to find out, had to be the one to discover all the secret nooks and crannies of John Watson.

“I suppose I should go, let you get your stuff unpacked,” Sherlock said eventually, still feeling odd and out of sorts.

“Um,” John said, hand coming up to scratch the back of his head. “You can, um. You can stay… if you like. I mean, ahem - obviously you shouldn’t stay if you don’t want to, but… I’d like… I’d like it if you did. Stayed. Um.”

Sherlock’s heart leapt, and he found himself nodding vigorously before he’d even formulated a response to this surprising invitation.

“Of course - “

“I can make you dinner if you - “

“I don’t mind.”

“Good.”

They both looked at each other tentatively, and Sherlock’s heart pounded. This was just silly, he’d only just met the man, and already he was staying to help arrange his flat. On the other hand, he’d get to go through John’s stuff, which would be good for his mission to find out more about John.

“More tea!” John said quickly and refilled the kettle.

John made them both more tea, and Sherlock helped him move and arrange his boxes. In some places, cockroaches suddenly scattered as cupboards were opened, and John’s nose would crinkle every time they found hidden mold.

“It’s like that everywhere in this building,” Sherlock offered. “Just be glad your fridge works.”

“Does yours not?” John asked, hands on his hips.

“No, I’ve been trying to get them to replace it for ages,” Sherlock replied, scratching his head. “But you know, I barely eat anyway, so it’s hardly an issue.”

John looked scandalized. “How can you not have a fridge? That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure they’ll fix it eventually,” Sherlock said, without holding out any real hope for such an event.

“At least the rent is cheap,” John sighed. “I did wonder if maybe I’d gotten a bit too lucky finding one with rent this low. Now I know why.”

It seemed John was too tired to get everything set up in the flat that night, but he did manage to set up the telly and the couch.

“Watch an episode of the East Enders with me?” John asked with a yawn.

“It’s utter nonsense,” Sherlock replied. “But I suppose I could.”

It was late by the time that Sherlock went back over to his own flat, and he wondered when he’d become so… ordinary. Then again, it wasn’t every day a person like him met a person like John Watson.

OOooOO

Sherlock came back from class to find a note on his door. He grabbed it off the door with his teeth, carrying too much and not wanting to put any of it down. He scrabbled with his keys, kicked the door open and immediately dropped everything he’d been carrying and took the note out of his mouth.

_Come over after class? JW_

Sherlock blinked at the note and then looked at the stuff he’d just put down. He’d borrowed a few things from the chem lab in order to carry out a few experiments at home. Also all of his textbooks, because it turned out most of them were useless to him and he planned to use them as bookends, since they were heavy enough.

He’d been planning an experiment, but John wanted him to come over.

What did that mean?

Tentatively, Sherlock checked his hair and clothes in the mirror before heading to the front door. John’s door was right next to his, and Sherlock raised his hand to knock. He hesitated.

“You’re being an idiot,” Sherlock muttered to himself and went to knock again.

And stopped.

He cleared his throat and straightened his clothes again, although they didn’t need it. He shuffled his feet once and went to knock.

The door opened before he could work up the courage. John grinned at him, and Sherlock’s cheeks warmed. John’s hair was delightfully tousled, and he looked so pleased to see Sherlock, that Sherlock couldn’t quite believe that it had been him that John was waiting for.

“You coming in?” John asked.

“H-how did you know I was at the door?” Sherlock stammered.

“Didn’t, I heard you get home and was going to come ask if you got my note.”

“Ah, yes, I did.” Sherlock blushed again.

Had got the note. In fact, it was in his pocket at this very moment, where Sherlock had put it, and was going to take out again later to admire. A note for Sherlock. A note written in John’s jagged handwriting. A note signed with John’s initials. For Sherlock.

“Well, come on in,” John said, stepping aside for Sherlock to enter.

Sherlock did, and looked around. John had arranged all of his furniture and there was a pile of flattened boxes in the corner waiting to be taken out. It looked as if John had gotten everything sorted out already. He was a fast worker. Sherlock still had boxes that he hadn’t bothered unpacking from when he’d moved in at beginning of term.

“Nice set up,” Sherlock said, which it was. 

“Tea?” John said. “I was just about to make dinner.”

“Tea would be good,” Sherlock said, and sat tentatively on the edge of the couch.

“I’ll make you some,” John said. “Do you like curry?”

“Um…” Sherlock said.

But John was already bustling around the kitchen gathering ingredients and throwing them into a large pot. 

“I already prepared these earlier, now we just have to mix it together and add heat,” John said.

Sherlock nodded, but his heart thumped loudly against his ribcage. John had prepared all the ingredients earlier in the day. He hadn’t made the curry until he knew Sherlock was going to be there. Which meant John had been planning this all along.

“Where did you learn to make curry?” asked Sherlock, just to break the silence.

“My ex-girlfriend,” John said. “Her mom’s recipe. It’s the best, you’ll see.”

Sherlock’s heart stumbled. “Girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” John said. “My ex.”

“Do… do you have a girlfriend now?” Sherlock asked tentatively. 

“No,” John laughed. “Not much time to go flirt when I have all this coursework and such to do. What about you? Girlfriend?”

“Not really my area,” Sherlock said quickly, and ducked his head.

“Oh,” John said, and for a moment, Sherlock was worried that was going to be a problem. “Boyfriend then? It’s fine, it’s all fine.”

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock said, a little more sharply than intended. “And no, I don’t have a boyfriend, currently.”

“So we’re both single,” John said. 

And just when Sherlock’s heart was almost back to normal, John said, “Good,” and caused it to leap ridiculously inside his chest again.

Good? _Good?_

There weren’t too many ways Sherlock could interpret that, and most of them were very suggestive of interest in some sort of relationship. 

“I - I - “ Sherlock stuttered incoherently.

“Here,” John said, setting his mug of tea in front of him, smirking at how flustered Sherlock was.

And then Sherlock knew: he was being seduced.

The thing was, he didn’t entirely mind.

OOooOO

Almost every day that week, John left a note on his door inviting him over for dinner. When Sherlock protested that John didn’t need to feed him so much, John just said that if Sherlock didn’t have a fridge, how was he supposed to eat?

Sherlock retaliated by picking up some Thai takeaway on one of the days John hadn’t left him a note and knocking on John’s door.

John opened the door, but rather than looking pleased, like Sherlock had planned, his face fell. Sherlock’s heart clenched, and he got the sudden urge to flee. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John said, sounding awkward. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Before John could say anything else, there were footsteps in the hallway behind him, and a girl appeared over his shoulder. Sherlock froze in surprise. Something must have shown on his face, because John turned to look too.

“Hello!” she said brightly.

“Sarah,” John said. “I told you I’d just be a minute-”

“N-never mind, I didn’t realize you were busy!” Sherlock said hastily, and before either of them could say anything, escaped back into his flat.

He’d been such an idiot.

Why had he thought John was flirting with him? Obviously it must have been wishful thinking, because John was holed up with some woman that wasn’t him. He’d probably been on a stay-in date with her, and he’d interrupted. 

She wanted to become a doctor, too, obviously. They’d be the perfect couple.

That left Sherlock in his own flat, feeling abandoned and humiliated, holding two helpings of curry that weren’t going to get eaten. Sherlock didn’t feel that hungry anymore. He went to put them in the fridge, remembered it wasn’t working, and slumped. He stood dumbly in the middle of the kitchen for a moment or two, then finally opened the fridge and put the curry in. At least the cockroaches wouldn’t get it in there.

He felt his eyes welling up and dashed them away angrily. This was nothing to cry over, Sherlock making another mistake like this. He should be used to it by now, not being able to tell when someone liked him or not.

He needed cigarettes. 

He was searching behind the backs of the couch cushions for change to buy more when he heard the door of John’s flat open and close. Sherlock stopped what he was doing, and a moment later, there came a rap at his door.

Cautiously, he approached his door, trying not to make the floor creak as he went to look through the peephole. It was John.

“Sherlock, I know you’re there,” John said. “Please open the door.”

There was nothing for it but to open the door, and to try and school his expression, not give away how defeated he suddenly felt. It mustn’t have worked, because John’s worried face turned even more anxious when he saw Sherlock’s.

“Oh, Sherlock, it’s not like that,” John said. “We were just studying, that’s all.”

“Yes, well, it doesn’t much matter,” Sherlock said, looking down at his feet. “I made a mistake. It’s not a problem I can’t handle. Don’t worry about it.”

“You didn’t make a mistake,” John said quietly. “You brought curry? Let’s reheat it, go back to mine, watch some telly.”

Sherlock almost didn’t, didn’t want to subject himself to this churning feeling in his gut that was suddenly questioning not only the validity of his feelings, but whether or not all this was even a good idea to begin with. What was he going to do about this, ask John out? Honestly, he was far too - 

Gentle fingers under his chin lifted his eyes up to John’s, and John looked at him seriously. Neither of them said a word, caught up in the other’s gaze. Sherlock’s heart was rocketing furiously, the pulse of his blood so close to the pads of John’s fingers. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not like that at all. I promise,” John said. “Now come on, get the curry, and come with me.”

Sherlock felt all wrong-footed as he collected the curry from the fridge and followed John next door. John put the curry in the microwave and found them some cutlery. They were too subdued, not talking with their usual banter, and it was unnerving. Sherlock cursed himself silently. Why had he decided to come over? He knew he didn’t know how to handle situations like this well, so why had he subjected himself to it again?

Sherlock still didn’t feel that hungry, but obediently started eating after John handed him a fork. He wasn’t sure why he’d come over, after witnessing what he did.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’ve made a mess of things,” John finally said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t want you to come over. I do, all the time.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Sherlock admitted quietly, staring at his own lap, and at the congealing curry.

“Ah, I’ve done a bad job at this,” John said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “But I was sort of intimidated by you, you know? I wasn’t sure if you would like it if I…”

“If what?” Sherlock asked.

“If I…” John didn’t finish. Instead, he put the plate of curry aside, leaned across the couch and kissed Sherlock on the cheek, right below his cheekbone. Sherlock blinked, startled, and stayed very still as John pulled away again. He felt a little dazzled at the unexpected show of affection, and that it seemed as if John was announcing his intentions.

John must have thought the dazed look on his face was negative, because he hurriedly said, “Sorry, I thought that you might want… I’ll just... “

“No!” Sherlock said quickly. “I do. I’m just… I haven’t... “ He took a deep breath. “I do like you, John.”

“Oh,” John said. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, face flushing heavily.

“Alright,” John said, smiling.

He turned on the telly, and they finished their curry while watching whatever it was on BBC One, some period drama that Sherlock was only half-watching. He was glad that John had put the telly on, because it gave him time to process what was happening.

John liked him, and had all along. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure where this was going, and John hadn’t pushed anything. That was good.

Once the show was over, John said, “I should really give you my mobile number. Then you can call me whenever you want to make plans.”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, Sherlock, that’s absolutely fine,” John said, and programmed his number into Sherlock’s phone.

Sherlock went back to his flat, and when he got there, there was already a message on his phone, waiting for him.

_Goodnight, Sherlock._

OOooOO

Sherlock stared down at the screen of his mobile, a message to John open, but Sherlock couldn’t think of what to say. He was in between classes, and just wanted to say something, to remind John that he was still there. There were probably a lot of smart, attractive, soon-to-be-doctors in John’s program, and Sherlock needed John to know Sherlock was thinking about him.

But what to say?

Sherlock had never been good at inane conversation. But nobody ever wanted to hear what Sherlock was really thinking, mostly because it was alarming. The cursor on his smartphone blinked, and he sighed. What wouldn’t John find alarming?

A sense of despair rolled up from the depths of his gut. It didn’t matter, because eventually Sherlock was going to screw this up and say or do something that John didn’t approve of. Just because he’d lasted longer than any other person he generally talked to didn’t mean he wouldn’t realize one day what kind of person Sherlock actually was.

“Hey freak,” someone said behind him, and jostled him.

Sherlock sighed. It was Sebastian Wilkes and one of his cronies. He’d met Wilkes in his undergrad year, and had made a fast enemy. Wilkes had tried to play around with him, like he did so many other people, trying to get them to dance to his tune. Sherlock had seen through it, but not before Wilkes had made Sherlock think he actually had a friend in him.

“What are you doing in the lab, Wilkes?” Sherlock spat. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Such as leaving?”

“Who are you texting, Holmes?” Wilkes asked in a silky voice. “Finally got a freak friend to hang out with instead of being by yourself in the lab at 11 o’ clock at night?”

“Piss off,” Sherlock said, and tucked his phone away.

Before he could answer, one of the chemistry professors came in and asked after Sherlock’s graduate thesis draft. Sherlock glared over the professor’s shoulder as Wilkes hastily left.

He never did get his text sent off to John.

Halfway through his lab, his phone trilled, and Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat. He accidentally dropped his pipette on the floor, but was too busy fumbling after his phone to collect it. Sherlock held his breath, even though there was only one person it could be.

_You free this evening?_

He was, but he paused before answering. Sherlock didn’t want to seem too desperate, wanted John to think he could be calm and relaxed in situations like this. But the fact of the matter was, his heart was pounding so loudly that it was all he could hear, and his knees felt weak enough that he had to sit down for a moment to get his bearings again. Suave was the last word Sherlock would use to describe his romantic ability.

Shakily, he typed back slowly, although usually he was much faster at texting.

_Yes, I’ll be done at 6. Takeaway? SH_

He was actually done at 5, but he needed time… he didn’t know what he needed time for, he just needed it. He put his head down because he was feeling slightly light-headed. His vital signs were almost back to normal when his phone went off and sent them soaring again. This couldn’t be healthy. How did people cope with such extreme physiological reactions?

_I’d like to cook for you, actually. Do you like Italian?_

Sherlock did like Italian, and could have brought them both some excellent pasta from down the street. But something about John cooking for him, making him something with his own two hands and then serving it to Sherlock was very appealing. A warm flutter in his abdomen seconded this thought.

_Sounds good. SH_

_See you soon!_

“Sherlock, are you alright?” his professor asked from behind him. “You look rather flushed.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock hastily said, standing up. “Just… a little warm in here is all.”

Luckily, his professor had too much tact to point out that temperatures had been mild all week and went back to supervising the rest of the lab. Sherlock gulped and retrieved his pipette. Hopefully John knew what one was supposed to do in a romantic relationship and explained it to him, because he didn’t think his heart could take the suspense anymore.

OOooOO

Sherlock could smell garlic and basil from down the hallway as he exited the stairwell of their crappy building. The stairwell had smelled of an unearthly mixture of wet dog and marijuana, so the change was definitely preferable. Sherlock had gotten rained on while walking back from the tube, and his hair was damp.

It was 6:06 when he knocked on the door.

John opened the door, then blinked up at him, eyes slightly wider than normal.

“What?” Sherlock asked self-consciously, reaching up to flatten his hair.

John swallowed. “Um, nothing. Just… I like it when your hair is wet, apparently.”

“You’ll like it less when it dries and gets frizzy,” Sherlock said dryly.

John grinned, “I can just imagine. Here, let me hang up your wet things.”

Sherlock came into the kitchen after John and looked around. Through the kitchenette, John had set the table up nicely. Sherlock swallowed hard. Very nicely. There was a tablecloth, and napkins, and nice dishes and candles and everything. It was the sort of romantic setting Sherlock had seen on telly programs and films, but had never imagined happening to himself.

“Oh,” he said, a little more breathily than he’d have liked in order to appear unaffected.

“Do you… do you like it?” John asked hesitantly from behind him.

“Yes. I - um - yes,” Sherlock said, and he could feel himself blushing.

“Here, sit, I’ll get you a plate,” John babbled.

Sherlock sat and realized that John had even gone and got a bottle of wine and some wine glasses that he didn’t remember John owning the last time he’d visited him. A plate of pasta was set in front of him, and another bowl of sliced garlic bread set in between them. John got a corkscrew and opened the wine, pouring them both a glass.

Sherlock’s heart hurt from how many emotional freefalls it had been through so far today, and Sherlock wondered if being happy always made people feel like they might be dying. It was an interesting experience, but Sherlock was far too invested in the moment to catalogue it properly.

“Cheers,” John said.

Sherlock clinked his glass against John’s and took a sip. The wine had a deep and complex flavour, making him wonder how much John had spent on the bottle. Then again, Sherlock wasn’t sure there was a real correlation between quality of wine and price. An experiment for later, another day, a day when he didn’t have John Watson across from him giving him that look.

It was a soft look, a look that dislodged butterflies from the lining of his stomach. Sherlock took another sip of wine to quench his suddenly dry mouth. They hadn’t even said anything yet, just looked at one another across the table, faces lit by the softer, warmer candlelight. 

Sherlock took a bite of his pasta and felt the flavour burst across all his tastebuds.

“This is delicious, John,” he said softly. 

John looked up and smiled a bit shyly. “Thank you.”

There was a strange muted quality to the atmosphere, as if Sherlock shouldn’t break the thick and meaningful silence of the room as they ate. Something was at work that he didn’t quite understand, and didn’t know how to navigate. It was wonderful, somehow awe-inspiring in a way, that someone like John would do something like this for Sherlock.

Yet somehow, Sherlock wished that they were eating takeaway on the couch and taking part in their usual banter. There was just so much weighty expectation in this moment, and Sherlock didn’t know if he could live up to it.

“John,” he said softly. “This is wonderful, what you’ve done. And you did it all for me, I can hardly believe you thought I was worth the effort. But - but I - “

Sherlock struggled with finding the words to tell John that as much as he appreciated the sentiment, he liked them both the way they usually were.

“Oh thank God,” John said, with a sudden relieved smile. “It seemed like a good idea, but now that the moment is here…”

“You understand?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“God, yeah,” John giggled. “You know, lots of people love this romantic stuff, but for us…”

He reached down, grabbed both their plates and blew out the candles.

“Come on,” he said. “Bring the wine.”

They both trooped over to the sofa and put the plates in their laps. John flicked on the telly, and immediately made a disparaging comment about one of the characters on the screen. Sherlock laughed, and he felt himself settle into the moment, like he belonged in it, here with John.

They had both finished their pasta and were still sitting and watching the telly when John’s warmth, of which Sherlock could feel the proximity, suddenly sank against his side, became the weight of something else. John leaned into him, his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, and when Sherlock turned his head slightly, his nose was buried in John’s tawny coloured hair.

Sherlock trembled slightly and then relaxed, breathing in John’s scent, which was suddenly so close, blanketed around him.

He was so warm, and solid, and _there_. Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes. John reached out tentatively, and for a moment, Sherlock didn’t know what would happen, until John closed his hand around Sherlock’s and twined their fingers together.

“Oh,” Sherlock said softly, his heart fluttering like a breath could extinguish it as easily as a candle.

“Okay?” John whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I like it.”

John turned his head and his lips pressed to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock froze, the cogs of his brain suddenly motionless with shock. It was such a soft, delicate thing, like a moth’s wing under lamplight. Sherlock shivered.

“John…” he whispered pleadingly.

“Alright,” John said softly. “Okay.”

A gentle hand came up to turn his chin slightly, and suddenly John was kissing him. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and he whimpered, a small sound that was loud against the muted sounds of the telly in the background. John caught the noise with his mouth, coaxing Sherlock to melt against him, to get caught up in the back and forth flow, an inexorable tidal pull.

Sherlock capitulated, allowed himself to be dragged under. He couldn’t breathe, and the rushing in his ears told him he was drowning.

John’s hands caressed him, dragging fingers down his jawline and over the curve of his neck, and Sherlock could swear he could feel his fingerprints embedding themselves in his skin. John’s mouth followed, and Sherlock’s skin tingled, sending little frissons of pleasure that collected and then flowed downwards to puddle in his groin.

John sucking on his collarbone pulled a groan from his throat, and Sherlock vaguely realized his fingers were clenched in John’s shirt.

“I want to see you,” John said in a husky voice. “May I?”

“I - “ Sherlock choked out, fumbling with the top button on his shirt helplessly.

“Let me,” John breathed, and took over.

Sherlock watched with wide eyes as John unbuttoned his shirt, revealing an ever-widening swath of pale skin. Sherlock struggled to untangle himself from it, and John laughed softly and kissed the wing of his collarbone. Sherlock pressed his face to John’s hair and reached up to tangle his fingers in it. It was gloriously soft and smelled delicious, the scent of it working its way into Sherlock’s very cells.

John’s mouth closed over a nipple and sucked. Sherlock, completely unprepared for the shock of warm arousal that shot through him at the sensation, gasped and tilted his head back. His fingers clenched in John’s hair and he panted as John lapped and sucked at the raised, puckered flesh until Sherlock was writhing underneath him on the couch.

His trousers felt rather too tight, and Sherlock kept getting tantalizing brushes of John’s knee against his bollocks.

“Bedroom?” John suggested, voice rough, and breath ghosting hot and wet against his throat.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock hissed.

John pulled him through to the bedroom, pushing him up against the door with his weight. Sherlock leaned back and let him do as he pleased. He felt a bit like an accidental passenger that had gotten swept away for a ride on the back of a wild horse. All he could do was hang on tight.

John divested him of his trousers so quickly, Sherlock wasn’t sure how he’d done it. He palmed Sherlock’s cock through his pants and Sherlock whined, rolling his hips up. John growled against his throat and kicked his legs further apart. Sherlock trembled and waited as John’s fingers brushed over the inside of his thigh, teasing him with soft passes of his fingers.

“I’m going to make you feel so good, darling,” John said licking a line up his chest, passing so close to his nipple that Sherlock bucked up.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, unable to think of a single thing to say that wasn’t John’s name.

John’s fingers brushed over his testicles, and Sherlock gasped. His legs trembled, and when John finally cupped Sherlock’s balls and rolled them gently in his hand, his legs wobbled alarmingly. Sherlock sagged against John and whined. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” John whispered, then guided them both backwards to the bed.

He got his thumbs in the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and shimmied them down. He tossed them carelessly over his shoulder and grinned up at Sherlock, who couldn’t believe he was not only naked on John’s bed, but also had John settled in between his spread thighs, grinning at him like a devil.

John’s hands ran up the length of his legs, fingers catching in the soft, curly hair. Sherlock shivered and spread them further.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” John groaned, and kissed up the inside of his knee.

Sherlock would never know how long it would have taken for John to get around to putting his mouth somewhere interesting, because at that exact moment, the fire alarm went off. Not just the alarm in the flat, but inside the building. It broke the silence in an intrusively blaring fashion, causing Sherlock to scramble backwards and right off the other side of the bed in surprise.

John started laughing uproariously.

Sherlock, who had landed on his back with his feet up in the air, ankles still on the edge of the bed, sat up and glared.

“You’re right, your hair does get a bit poofy after it dries,” John said, still grinning widely.

“This damned building,” Sherlock groaned in frustration.

John helped him up.

“We have to evacuate,” John said.

“It’s probably a false alarm,” Sherlock said, looking down at his now-soft groin morosely.

“Or it could be all the mold in the walls has caught fire,” John shot back.

Which was actually a possibility in this building.

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “Where are my clothes.”

John grinned at him sheepishly.

Sherlock had no idea where most of his clothes had ended up. John picked up a fluffy blanket off the end of his bed and tossed it to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at it.

“I’m not going outside naked,” he said flatly.

John giggled. “Well, I don’t know where all your clothes ended up…”

“I notice you managed to remain clothed,” Sherlock said snarkily as they went to the door to get their shoes on.

They joined the stream of disgruntled people exiting the building. Most people, upon realizing that it would probably take a while to sort out, drifted off towards the more busy streets that might have cafes to wait inside.

“I can’t go anywhere like this,” Sherlock said, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself.

“I suppose the public might find your choice of dress indecent,” John said, and Sherlock could tell he was hiding a smile.

“It wasn’t my choice!” Sherlock grumbled, then shivered. “It’s cold out.”

It probably wouldn’t have been cold if Sherlock wasn’t naked, and also wasn’t covered in drying sweat from their earlier activities. Still, his ankles and calves were chilly, and the draft was unpleasant.

“I’ll keep you warm,” John said, smiling.

Sherlock grumbled, but allowed John to gather Sherlock up in his arms, wrapping the blanket around them both. It was warmer, Sherlock conceded, and pressed closer.

So much for their first time.

“Hey,” John whispered. “It’s okay, you know. There’ll be other times.”

Sherlock was used to being the one who deduced people. “How did you - “

“You looked disappointed,” John said, stroking a soothing hand up his back. “Don’t be. Just because we were interrupted, it doesn’t mean it was our only chance.”

Sherlock realized that was almost exactly what he was afraid of, and hid his face against John’s shoulder.

“I - “ Sherlock swallowed hard. “I didn’t know if you wanted…”

“Something more?” John asked softly.

Sherlock nodded.

“Guess I should have clarified,” John said. “I do like you, Sherlock. A lot. I want to keep doing this for a long time.”

“That’s the problem,” Sherlock said. “ _No one_ likes me long-term. It just doesn’t happen. Everyone finds _something_ wrong with me eventually.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Everything about you just makes me want to keep you longer.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah,” John said, and rubbed small circles against Sherlock’s shoulder blade. “Yeah, I am.”

It took ages for the building manager and the fire crew to sort out what happened, and by that time, Sherlock was feeling sleepy. John lead him back to John’s flat, gave him a spare pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and tucked him into bed, clambering in after him. Sherlock smiled drowsily and hummed in satisfaction as John wrapped his arms around him. It was warm and secure, and absolutely the best feeling in the world, to drift asleep with John’s arms cradling him.

OOooOO

Sherlock woke up to find John curled around him from behind, arms wrapped tight around his waist, their hands clasped together in front of Sherlock. Sherlock sighed happily and snuggled back into the warmth all along his back.

The movement stirred John, who sleepily buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. After a few minutes of satisfied cuddling, Sherlock realized that the vague urgency he felt was actually not the need to use the loo. Not only that, John seemed to have the same problem, and it was poking him in the thigh.

Grinning, he wiggled his arse back against John’s erection, and John cursed against his back. The hands that had been absently tangled with his reached down, skimming along his stomach until they found his cock.

Sherlock groaned and thrust up as John palmed him through his borrowed boxers.

“Well, good morning,” John growled against his ear. “Looks like someone’s awake.”

Sherlock just smiled sleepily and tried to turn around in John’s arms so that he could finally kiss him. It took a lot more effort to turn over while tangled up in bedsheets, but Sherlock managed. He kissed John’s mouth and breathed in the soft, sweet smell of their combined scents after sleeping in the same bed all night. 

“Morning,” he purred.

“You know, I think we were in the middle of something last night,” John said. “I think I might have to pick up where we left off.”

“You’ll get no arguments from me,” Sherlock said.

John threw the covers off them and then covered Sherlock’s body with his own sleep-rumpled one. 

“Cheeky,” he said, and then pulled the t-shirt Sherlock was wearing up so that he could lick at Sherlock’s nipple.

“You really like those,” Sherlock noted, then gasped as John sucked.

“So do you,” John replied.

He kissed down the smooth length of Sherlock’s stomach, dotting it with little moist presses of his lips. Sherlock struggled to get the shirt off, as much as he liked wearing something of John’s, having bare skin to rub against John was more important at the moment. He emerged to find John in the same position he’d been in last night, between Sherlock’s spread legs.

“Looks like we need to get rid of these,” John said, hooking his thumbs in the waistband and pulling them off carefully.

Sherlock blushed. Last night, the darkness and shadow of the room had layered Sherlock in protection, or at least it had felt like it. Now John was looking down at Sherlock in the full light of day, completely uncovered. He averted his eyes in embarrassment.

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” John said, crawling up his body. “You’re gorgeous. Don’t look away. Besides, if you do that, you won’t be able to see me either.”

And he quickly stripped off his own shirt and pants without any ceremony. Sherlock did look, because John was quite correct, he’d put up with any indignity in order to see John naked.

For a moment, Sherlock lost all the breath in his lungs and couldn’t think of anything to say. He knew his mouth had fallen open and hastily shut it, swallowing hard. John was all golden skin and solid muscle, obviously from playing rugby. He had more hair on his chest than Sherlock, and Sherlock wanted to bury his fingers in it. His cock jutted up, flushed a deep red, hard and resting against his abdomen.

John smiled, leaning down to brush a soft kiss over his mouth. Sherlock leaned up, hand coming up to curl around the back of John’s neck, pulling him down. All that warm skin made contact, and Sherlock groaned against John’s mouth as their bodies settled together. Sherlock spread his legs and John slotted in between them, aligning their groins.

John’s cock slid over Sherlock’s hip and when Sherlock bucked up, finally came in contact with Sherlock’s aching length. 

John laughed lightly and said, “Eager, are we?”

“John,” Sherlock groaned, reaching down with one hand to grab John’s arse and pull it towards himself.

John cursed, then reached in between them to wrap his hand around them both. Sherlock lost himself, everything narrowing down to that aching place between his legs that was begging for John to touch it. He panted, unable to do anything except lie back and take what John gave him.

“I’m going to put my mouth on you, is that okay?”

Okay? That was more than okay, in Sherlock’s opinion. He nodded desperately and clutched harder at John’s shoulders.

“Is that a yes?” John rumbled against his throat, licking at his pulsing carotid artery.

“Yes!” Sherlock forced from his lungs.

This is what he’d been hoping for last night, before they’d been interrupted by that thrice-damned fire alarm. He didn’t know what he would do if his hopes were dashed this time. Probably implode.

“That’s a lad, tell me what you like,” John said, shimmying down Sherlock’s body.

“Your mouth,” Sherlock begged.

“As you wish,” John said, and kissed the groove of his hipbone.

Sherlock eagerly spread his legs for John, and felt John hum in encouragement, hands running up and down their long length. 

“This is where we were, weren’t we?” John asked huskily and nipped at Sherlock’s inner thigh.

“Ah,” Sherlock replied, very articulately, he thought.

“Yes, that’s it, darling,” John said.

He nosed down between Sherlock’s legs and licked at Sherlock’s bollocks, sucking at them gently and rolling them with his tongue. Sherlock, having never experienced that particular sensation before, nearly shot straight over the side of the bed for a second time. John braced Sherlock’s knees over his shoulders.

“Ah, ah, none of that, sweetheart,” he said. “Legs over my shoulders now, there’s a lad.”

Sherlock complied shakily and immediately constricted his ankles as John licked a line of wet heat up the underside of his cock. He whined and arched his back, heels digging into John’s back, but not letting go. He was all at once completely engulfed in John’s mouth, and at the first hint of suction, Sherlock keened loudly and stuffed his hand over his mouth, biting the fleshy part of his palm.

John reached up and pulled his hand away. “I think the neighbours deserve to be woken up, don’t you?”

John twined their fingers together, and Sherlock nearly crushed them as John went back to lapping at the head of his cock, tonguing the slit wetly. Sherlock made another loud and embarrassing noise, but it appeared to please John immensely, so Sherlock allowed himself the private moment.

It was an embarrassingly short time later that he was writhing mindlessly on the bed, tugging at John’s hand to try and warn him of Sherlock’s impending orgasm.

“John!” he cried, and thrust upward into John’s mouth one last time before shuddering hard in the throes of climax.

“Gorgeous,” John murmured, and kissed his stomach.

They lay like that together for a few moments, before Sherlock reached down to find that John was still hard.

“My turn,” he slurred, still a little out of it from all the endorphins rushing through his bloodstream.

He wasn’t sure whether it was his inexperience or the fact he was still a little high on body chemistry, but his technique was a little sloppy. Not for lack of enthusiasm, he loved the taste and feel of John in his mouth. He couldn’t believe he’d never tried this before, it was amazing.

His jaw began to ache, but he kept sliding his mouth down over John’s length, trying to get as much of it in his mouth as possible. John’s hand was tangled in his hair, and Sherlock found he liked it there. Before this, he’d have thought the act of oral sex demeaning, as it was portrayed in pornography. But this was so much more than that, somehow.

He looked up from John’s erection and caught John’s dazed expression.

“Fuck,” John gasped. “That’s fucking brilliant.”

Sherlock wasn’t quite good enough to get John to come just from having his mouth on him, although John assured him that was completely fine. He finished John off with his hand and a generous helping of lube.

John came messily all over the both of them, and it was one of the best things Sherlock had ever seen.

John insisted that they have a shower, and Sherlock complied happily. The water pressure in their building left much to be desired, but for once, Sherlock was too distracted and pleased to give it much thought.

John made them breakfast. Sherlock basked in the happy glow of post-coital contentment and watched John bustle around in a pair of boxers and an apron. He himself was wearing one of John’s ratty bathrobes. It was nice wearing John’s clothes, and Sherlock found himself making a list of things John owned that he could appropriate as his own over the course of their relationship.

He’d noticed John had an old rugby jersey in his closet, and happily added it to the list.

“You’re going to be late for class,” John said as he put a plate down in front of Sherlock and kissed him.

For once, Sherlock didn’t remotely care. The future he’d imagined himself since his first day at university had suddenly become infinitely brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/)


End file.
